


Falling Together, Falling Apart

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Pawns and Symbols - Majliss Larson, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-27
Updated: 2008-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'll be alright to fall apart later, in the privacy of her own quarters where there's no one around to disapprove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Together, Falling Apart

The away team return from the mission with bruises and cuts marring their skin and their faces set in hard, angry lines, carrying their dead like a burden of honor.

Standing next to the Commander, Jean manages to hold herself together as they pass her, but only just. She's careful not to look anywhere near Aernath's broken body, knowing that the sight would make her fall apart right then and there. It's only delaying the inevitable; but it'll be alright to break down later, in the privacy of her own quarters where there's no one around to disapprove, no one expecting her to conduct in what Klingons in their skewed way consider appropriate behavior.

When the transporter room has cleared, there's Kang's hand on her shoulder, a solid weight probably meant to be comforting but she hardly even feels it. She answers his questions mechanically, barely aware that they're talking, forgetting what they say the moments the words are spoken, the urge to get away and scream and cry getting stronger every second.

She hurries back to her quarters and every step, every second spent waiting for the turbolift, every moment she feels peoples' eyes on her is agony. Yet, she holds on to her control, so tightly that she thinks she might explode from it, defying the wave of anguish that is about to crash down on her.

And then, two corridors from her quarters, no more than two minutes away from safety and privacy and the right to break down, she runs into Tirax, almost crashing into him as he's on his way from the sick bay. 

Somewhere, in the far back of her mind, she registers how tired and haggard he looks, the angry red cut on his neck, the haunted eyes. She's too far gone to care, though, and all she sees is the man who's been making her life living hell for the past two years, who was down on the planet with Aernath when they were attacked, whose job it was to protect Aernath – and now he's dead and Tirax lives and it's just _not fair_.

She doesn't think about what she's doing, running on instinct, lashing out and hitting him, ineffectively pummeling his chest with her fists again and again.

"It should have been you," she yells at him, but it comes out sounding hysterical and desperate instead of angry. When she tries again, her voice is rough and unfamiliar and barely audible, and then her body is shaking with heavy sobs. 

She'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, but Tirax is there, and he's warm and solid. The rough material of his uniform shirt scratches her cheek, and it's only when she feels the clam cloth against her face that she registers that she's been crying into his shoulder. Her fingers are clenched around his shirt, so tightly that it aches.

She feels the shift of his muscles as he moves, breaking his rigid, frozen stance for the first time since she ran into him, and she idly wonders whether he's going to hit her or merely push her away. She should step away before the scene gets ugly... well, ugli _er_ , but she can't summon the strength to move. It's as if the nerves between her brain and her body have been severed, as if she lost control over her motor skills.

His arms come up, hands clamping around her upper arms so tight it hurts and the physical pain is an almost welcome distraction. Maybe, she thinks, a fight wouldn't be a bad thing; maybe it would be enough to silence the endless screaming mantra of _he's gone he's gone he's gone_ inside her head. The adrenaline rush slows the moment, drawing it out, as she's getting ready to fight back if she needs to.

But then Tirax' grip eases and instead of attacking her, his arms wrap around her, _holding_ her. 

It's probably the first time he has touched her without the intention to cause her pain – at least she thinks he doesn't – but in a way, it hurts more than every bruise he left on her body before. Because she cannot hold on to the adrenaline and the anger and the single-minded focus on fighting now, and all her barriers are breaking down as it all crashes down on her. Her legs give way under her and she lets the pain in, barely aware that he catches her as she's falling.

The next thing she knows, she's being put down on her bed – perhaps not exactly gently, but still surprisingly carefully, considering that it's Tirax. Subconsciously, she wonders how he got access to her quarters, if he could always wander in and out of her whenever it pleased him. It should be an alarming thought, but she can worry about that later, she thinks.

"Human." Tirax' voice penetrates the tiredness and anguish clouding her mind, and she looks up to him standing above her. She can't make out his expression in the darkness of the room, but there's gruff, reluctant concern in his tone. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, quietly. Then she amends, "I will be." 

She's not sure whether it's the truth or a lie, but her answer appears to satisfy him because he nods once before turning to go. She doesn't watch him leave, curled up into a fetal position with her back towards to door, but she hears it slide open and the words spill out of her before she consciously makes a decision to speak.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't say anything, but she knows he must be hesitating in the doorway, because the sound of footfalls halts and there's no noise that indicates the closing of the door. "About what I said. I didn't mean that."

It suddenly seems important to her to tell him that, to make _something_ right between them. There's no answer for the longest time, and she almost thinks maybe he's already left after all when he says, "Yes, you did."

She can't interpret his tone; it seems almost carefully neutral. Unfolding her body, she turns around to look at him, but he's backlit by the neon lights in the corridor and their harsh white glare hurts her sore eyes. 

"No, I didn't," she tells him, and her voice almost sounds like her own again.

He just looks at her for a long moment, until the weight of his stare and the silence makes her feel uncomfortable and self-conscious and she draws the covers up and wraps herself in them.

"Get some rest, human," he finally says, before taking a step back and letting the door slide shut between them.


End file.
